Lucid Dreaming
by Birds-and-Beasts
Summary: "Do you ever feel like your future is behind you?" Reid/Maeve pairing set from Zugzwang (8x12), through the beginning of season 9. This story is about what would have happened if Maeve survived. Everything else is canon. Reid/Maeve centric, but all characters will be featured at some point.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: All the dialogue in this chapter is from Zugzwang (8x12) and not mine.

* * *

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone, we find it with another." – Thomas Merton

* * *

Maeve could hear the blaring sirens and the muffled voices of strangers. She heard Diane demand, "Put it on."

Her captor dragged in a tall, lanky, blindfolded man. She looked up upon hearing the one familiar intonation amongst the chaos. "Can I take the blindfold off?" her personified gentleman caller asked. Despite never having laid eyes on this would-be stranger, she instantly knew who he was. Spencer.

"No," Diane barked, shoving him to a chair across from Maeve.

He took a few breaths, steadying himself. "Hello," he said to Maeve. For a moment she was mesmerized by the familiar music that danced on the man's tongue. It was strange coming from a person instead of from the other end of a receiver.

"Hi," she replied. She couldn't take her eyes off of him.

"I was hoping you could figure out my riddle," Diane purred, quite pleased with herself. "I-I mean, I knew you would." She slid her hand down Spencer's shirt, near his throat and down his chest. "The fun was just...how fast you"d do it." She maliciously tried seducing him, snaking further down his shirt. "All this and brains too." He swallowed nervously.

"It took me a long time. To be honest, I was distracted by your thesis."

"You read my thesis?" Diane was taken aback. No doubt all a part of whatever plan Spencer had formulated.

"I did. I think your writing could put you on the same plane as Jonas Salk. I've already sent it to the NIH." Maeve immediately saw his bluff. She'd read Diane's thesis—it was flawed and biased and, quite frankly, didn't make sense. The hypothesis that cells could somehow become suicidal wasn't exactly putting her on the same track as developing a polio vaccine.

Diane made a whiny noise, as if she were about to throw a tantrum. "Flattery is not going to get you out of this. I know what's waiting for me outside!"

"I've arranged for your freedom," Reid stated calmly.

"The federal government doesn't make deals with people like me," Diane said, almost condescendingly, as if she could see right through Spencer. Maeve knew she couldn't; their minds were incomparable.

"Not true. Nazi scientists were recruited for the Manhattan project; mafia bosses are regularly put into witness protection. If what you have is valuable enough, the federal government will work with you. And what you have is very valuable."

Diane was intrigued. "And what do I have, Doctor?" Maeve's pulse sped up as Diane pointed the gun directly at Spencer's chest. Though he felt the tip of the barrel, he didn't waver.

"You have a brain that doesn't play by normal societal rules. I know that all your life, the people you care about the most keep leaving. And there's a part of you that thinks it's because of that brain." He was taking advantage of her weaknesses, trying to sympathize with her, and gain her trust. He was very good at his job. "Well, I'm here because I'm not going to leave you. I'm here because I just hope that I get the chance."

This piqued Diane's curiosity. "A chance at what?"

"To be with you," Reid lied matter-of-factly. At that, Diane's expression softened slightly. "Me for her, that was the deal, right?"

"You're choosing me. Over her?" Diane couldn't hide that she was pleased.

"Diane, how could it be anyone else?" Reid asked, playing into her fantasy.

Diane may have been a delusional, obsessed stalker, but she wasn't completely stupid. "Prove it," she demanded.

Spencer inhaled, not quite as sound as he was before. "All right, how?"

"Say it again," Diane taunted, almost childishly. "This time, say it to her face." She stalked behind Spencer and threw off his blindfold.

In awe, Maeve looked into the eyes of her savior.

The first thing he saw was a pair of big blue eyes staring back at him. Even though her eyes were puffy and ringed with red, though her dark hair was knotted, though sweat and tears streaked her face, she was beautiful. Spencer had expected no less; regardless of what she looked like, she would always be beautiful to him.

She was here, in the flesh. It made her seem more real. And it made the situation even more dire. Seeing her confirmed the danger she was in. His eyes welled up.

He exhaled, bracing himself for what he had to say if there was any chance to save her. "I don't love you," he croaked in a small voice, choking on the blatant lie. How much did he berate himself for failing to tell her how he felt? How much did he regret not meeting her sooner? And now, when he finally saw her face—not smiling as he'd hoped, but streaked with tears—he couldn't even tell her that he loved her. He wanted to so badly; he'd mentally prepared himself for their first meeting, that moment when he could finally utter those three little, wonderful words. But now, doing so would kill her. His confident façade was gone; he looked at her with the greatest empathy and the most grievous guilt. "Sorry." His voice cracked. There was more sincerity in that one little 'sorry' than anything he'd said since he walked in the room.

Maeve gave him a small nod. "I understand." And she did. It was a neutral statement, safe in Diane's presence. But she understood every intonation and every tiny waver in Spencer's voice; she'd been listening to it for so long. Spencer blinked more times than what was necessary, keeping the tears from spilling over. And then, their small flicker of clarity was lost in the grand deception.

"I don't need her anymore," Diane hissed, her ultimate goal finally met. She bombarded Maeve, gun poised and ready. She closed her eyes, bracing.

Spencer put his mask back on. "Kill her and she won't have to live with the fact that you're smarter." Now it was Reid's turn to taunt, saving her as the gun met her forehead. "Let her live with her irrelevancy." The gun drifted away from Maeve's head.

Diane cut one of the shackles that bound her prisoner, and trained the gun back on Maeve's temple. "I just want her to see one more thing," Diane purred, feeling victorious. She stalked toward Reid, gun first. She ravished his mouth, like a leopard devouring her kill. Maeve felt sick with disgust, averting her eyes; she couldn't watch someone so devilish violating the person who came to her rescue.

Diane backed away from Reid's unmoving lips, realizing her meat was rancid. "Liar," she hissed. She stood up, roaring, "Liar!"

Reid struck, grabbing the gun still in Diane's claws. Maeve tried desperately to free her right hand from the zip tie. The trigger was pulled as he tried to wrestle it from Diane's grasp, the boom echoing throughout the room. A second boom penetrated the air, and Spencer skidded to the floor. Maeve jumped, silently pleading that Spencer wasn't hurt. Diane dove on her then, dragging her backward with one arm around her neck, the other pinning the gun at her thrumming carotid artery. As the building was stormed by several people wielding guns in FBI Kevlar vests, she saw Spencer clutching his arm. Her panic welled up, her pulse beating in her ears.

"Stay back, stay back, stay back!" Spencer desperately pleaded to his team.

"Spencer!" Maeve shrieked as Diane's gun prodded into her throat. He got his bearings; she hoped the bullet hadn't done irreparable damage.

"St-stay back, stay back!" He continued to beg the agents, all their guns trained on Diane. He pulled his hand away from his arm; Maeve saw there was no obvious bleeding. He held up his hands, palms up, to Diane, surrendering. "Diane. Diane, there's still a way out of this." But she was beyond reason.

"You never wanted me. Never! You lied!" She was going into hysterics.

"I didn't. Diane, I offered you a deal, and you can still take it. Me for her, let me take her place." Spencer was urgent, unwavering. Maeve stared at him in awe at his words.

"You would do that?" Diane wailed.

"Yes," Spencer said fiercely with absolute certainty. This was no bluff.

Diane continued to bawl. "You would kill yourself for _her_?!"

"Yes," he said tenderly. The willingness in his eyes was undeniable. Maeve stared in wonder at the man willing to give up his life to save hers. She wouldn't let either of them die without letting him know how she felt.

"Thomas Merton." Just that name was more significant than any drawn-out declaration of love she could come up with. Recognition spread across Spencer's face. Now he stared in wonder at her.

"Who's Thomas Merton?!" Diane demanded.

"He knows... He knows." As long as she lived, Spencer Reid would always be in her gratitude. Even if she never survived to see tomorrow.

"Who's Thomas Merton?! Who is he?!" Diane screeched, jerking Maeve violently. But this time she didn't whimper.

If she was going to die, she wouldn't die afraid. "He's the one thing you can never take from us." Her eyes never left Spencer's.

Diane reached her resolve. "No," she spat. She very deliberately moved the gun up to her own temple, lining up both herself and her enemy in the path of the bullet.

"WAIT!" Spencer screamed.

In the same second, deafening gunfire seized the air.

* * *

"No one really knows why they are alive until they know what they'd die for." - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

* * *

A/N: I know there wasn't anything new in this chapter, so chapter 2 will be up soon. Reviews are always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

"The worst part of life is waiting. The best part of life is having someone worth waiting for." – Jessica Brumley

* * *

Her ears were ringing. Her head was in a fog, but she knew for certain that she heard two distinct gunshots. Only a fraction of a second separated the bullets' departure from their guns; so close that if she didn't have so much adrenaline pumping through her, the two would have been blurred in the tumult. She was on her hands and knees from catching herself when Diane's bullet knocked her forward a second before. Her left arm throbbed with a piercing pain. It was difficult to determine the chronology of events, everything was so fast.

"Get paramedics!" Spencer yelled, crouching right beside her. She met his panic-stricken brown eyes. He looked away from her for half a second and saw all the blood. His eyes widened. "I need a tourniquet," he said urgently, half to her and half to himself. Thinking on his feet, he unbuckled his belt with trembling fingers. Maeve shifted her weight to hold out her arm to him, but winced when she moved it. At the sound of her pain, Spencer gave her a concerned glance before gingerly tightening his belt around her arm, near her shoulder.

She kept her voice steady, reining in the shaky falsetto that was sure to seep through the cracks in any stoic façade she maintained. It was surprisingly easier than she had anticipated. "Spencer." As she held his gaze, words evaded her. What exactly did one say to the person who would willingly sacrifice their own life to save yours? 'Thank you' wasn't enough.

Was he okay? He didn't seem to have any severe injuries, but perhaps the adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay. Part of her mind reeled, questions and fear spiraling in a chaotic mental tornado. But another part told her to brush that aside for now; she felt as if she could finally exhale, temporarily unburdening herself of suffocating worry. Words were not needed.

She reached her right hand toward his, his warm palm enveloped in hers. He gave her a gentle, comforting squeeze. With his free hand, he grasped her elbow and pulled her to her feet with him. Holding her gaze and her hand, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked with her away from the macabre scene to the waiting ambulance.

Their tacit gestures carried so much more than any vocal exchange.

* * *

Meanwhile, Morgan ran toward the fallen unsub as soon as Hotch's bullet penetrated her chest. The other agents flanked him, minus Blake. She stared at Spencer and Maeve, wanting to go to them—to help the victims—but held back. She didn't want to interrupt their intimate moment; Spencer needed to do this by himself.

Morgan checked her neck for a pulse: the carotid artery thrummed vehemently. Diane was bleeding too heavily for him to handcuff her. He pulled the gun away from her grasp, sort of wishing he could do a bit more damage to the bully who dared mess with Reid. He hoped she lived long enough to see justice.

By the time the EMTs could get a gurney in there, there was a massive lake of blood under Diane's struggling body. The stretcher was wheeled away in a tumult, the medics trying to keep someone alive who had no desire to live.

The agents looked to their unit chief for further instructions. Hotch took on his usual formality. "JJ and Morgan head over to the hospital with Reid." The two agents nodded, heading outside. "Blake and Rossi, if you don't mind staying behind, we need to get a CSI team in here." Blake wanted to protest, but she also didn't want to abandon where she was needed. They had a job to do. She made a mental note to go to the hospital as soon as she could.

The three agents began all the necessary protocol that came with bloodshed.

* * *

Diane felt herself being lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled into the blinding lights of the ambulance. The thrashing pain kept gnawing at her, but all she could think was '_let me die let me die let me die_...' over and over like a chant. Why couldn't she just die already?! Why did her heart insist on beating faster, compensating for the blood loss? No matter how hard she tried to stop breathing, air was forced down her lungs, the villi thirsty for more oxygen. Why wouldn't her body just cooperate and cease to function? Why weren't her cells dying at her will?

She still felt her blood rush, her lungs expand, her muscles contract and twitch—along with the burning, throbbing pain—but her mind was going numb. She saw black dots on her eyelids enlarge into dark nothingness.

* * *

The ambulance arrived at the hospital and Maeve's gurney was wheeled inside. She was still in shock as she was lead into foreign territory by strangers fumbling over her. In her stupor, she looked to the one familiar thing that felt like home: Spencer by her side. He hadn't let go of her hand the whole ride there; even when a medic bandaged the wound from the grazing bullet, he refused to abandon her in need. The EMTs rushed her through the white, sterile-smelling halls. Reid saw the sliding glass doors that prohibited public passage, and he knew he didn't have much time.

The nearest EMT turned to him. "Sir, you'll have to wait for her out here."

He gave her hand a final squeeze, as words erupted feverishly. "Maeve, it's going to be all right. I'll be here when you're out of surgery. I love you." He stopped walking and looked into her blue eyes as his hand slipped through hers. He watched through the closed door as she was whisked away. Even when she was out of sight, he stared through the glass where she was rolled away—very much in the way of various hospital personnel—hyperaware of the absence of her hand in his.

As he sauntered over to a group of chairs by the nurses' station, he couldn't help but think that he did it. He told Maeve that he loved her. Now she knew. Despite the overwhelming guilt he felt, he was kind of proud.

His small triumph was smothered by worry that swelled into panic. He hunched in his seat. He stared at his trembling hands as his foot tapped relentlessly. Now came the unbearable stretch of waiting. The restless energy associated with fear battling the draining feeling of being helpless in a conflicting stew, like trying to mix water and oil. It reminded him of when he waited for Emily to get out of surgery. That hadn't ended well.

But this was worse. Waiting for a comrade was comparatively a nauseating stomachache; waiting for a—how exactly should he categorize Maeve? 'Friend' was first to come to mind, but it was too commonplace, not nearly significant enough. _A lexical gap_, he thought. Language failed to accommodate a word that could sufficiently describe what Maeve was to him. One couldn't simply label her; her name itself seemed to be the closest word to convey every meaning necessary. Waiting for Maeve... Waiting for her was anticipatory, and exhausting, frustrating, and wonderful, and entirely worth every sluggish second.

He knew that this waiting would be meager compared to his waiting to see her face. But that didn't stop him from thinking of how he could have made this bout of waiting nonexistent.

He thought of everything he could have done to prevent risking Maeve's life. His team could have intervened earlier. He could have tried harder to focus on profiling and finding Maeve's stalker, instead of being so consumed with worry. He could have been more convincing when trying to negotiate with her tormentor.

The click of heels and the thud of boots caught his attention. JJ and Morgan approached him. "Hey, kid." Morgan clamped a hand on Reid's shoulder. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. The bullet barely grazed me," Reid muttered, gesturing to the minor friction burn on his arm. His mind was clearly somewhere else.

"You know that's not what I meant," Morgan said. Reid gave a slight shrug in response.

"Spence," JJ coaxed, a bit gentler than Morgan. She took the seat next to Reid, and Morgan followed suit. "How's Maeve?" She knew she'd get further if she drew the conversation away from Spencer and onto Maeve; he was selfless and modest and didn't like being babied.

"She was just taken into surgery." He tried futilely to sound detached. He looked JJ in the eyes, and whatever shaky façade he had before, now crumbled. "JJ, I feel responsible for what happened to her. I keep thinking of everything I could have done differently to keep her from getting hurt, but...that doesn't change that this is my fault."

"Reid, there's nothing you could have done—" Morgan began, but JJ interrupted him.

"You're right. This is your fault." Morgan stared at JJ, perplexed, but she continued. "It's your fault that she's alive. If you hadn't intervened, who knows what Diane would have done to her. You have nothing to feel guilty about."

"I can't help it. I can't ignore the fact that if I'd helped her sooner, she wouldn't be in this situation." He wore the same helpless expression he did when he begged his team to help him find Maeve.

JJ sighed deeply. "Spence. Last year, when Will got shot during that bank hostage situation, I was a wreck. I felt guilty and panicked; a million 'what if's went through my head. I wasn't with him; there was nothing I could do. He was doing his job, he had on a bulletproof vest, there was no way for me to get to him, and I still felt guilty that he got injured. But you...you saved Maeve. I think that warrants you forgiveness for whatever injuries she may have gotten in the process."

Spencer gave her a small smile. "Thanks, JJ." He still couldn't shake the nauseating panic in his gut. "Do you think she's going to be okay?"

"Reid, it's only natural to worry about someone you love when they're hurt. She'll be fine, man," Morgan assured him. "She's gotta be pretty tough to keep up with you." He shoved Reid playfully.

Reid didn't feel much better. "I know physically she'll make a full recovery. But what about after that? What if she can't heal from the emotional trauma?" His voice lowered, becoming shakier, ready to say what really scared him. "Sometimes people with PTSD practice avoidance; they push away any reminders of the incident... What if..._I'm_...one of her reminders?" He looked down at his folded hands, shielding himself from their prodding eyes. He murmured, "I don't know what I'd do...if I lost her. I can't."

He didn't know what he'd do. He'd been bullied, beaten, held hostage, kidnapped, tortured, shot, infected with anthrax, not to mention the emotional wounds from his childhood, the fear of inheriting his mother's mental illness, and the horror he witnessed everyday while trying to save people. Losing Maeve would be the icing on Miss Havisham's wedding cake. Would he be too hollow to feel anything? Or would he need something to numb the ache of emptiness? He didn't think any pain killer in the world could spare him from that purgatory.

JJ and Morgan exchanged a glance. They knew full well that that was a possibility. There was no need to feed Spencer false hope; he wasn't just another victim's loved one. He was fully aware of the aftereffects of a traumatic event—he'd worked at the BAU long enough to know that survivors didn't walk away unscathed.

"Spence," JJ patted his knee. "We don't know how Maeve will deal with this." She sighed. "She might not want to talk about it for a while. She might even develop PTSD. But you have access to the best resources to help her through this. I know you feel guilty that you didn't get us to intervene sooner, but it's not too late to help her. She's going to need you now more than ever."

'_I'd like to think that_,' thought Reid. Just because he had the knowledge and resources to help her cope, didn't mean that she'd necessarily accept it. Fear of rejection once again crept upon him. She would be expecting a knight in shining armor; what would she think when he took off his helmet, and revealed the ogre underneath? What if his sub-par exterior didn't match up to her understanding of his brilliant mind? Or worse, what if, in her vulnerable state, transference was the main reason she seemed interested in him in the first place? What if, even after she made it out alive, the 2,412 hours he'd spent with her was all he got?

Reid noticed JJ glance at the inconspicuous clock on the wall. "You don't have to stay," he told her.

She looked at him a bit guiltily. "Sorry. I should be getting home to Henry. But I can stay, if you want me to," she offered sincerely.

"No, don't worry about it. You should go home."

"Okay. Keep me updated."

"I will."

"I'll tell him Uncle Spence says 'hi'," she promised, getting to her feet.

He smiled. "Thanks."

She returned his smile before half-trotting down the hall, toward the exit.

Reid turned to Morgan. "You can go, too. I don't mind." Part of him wanted to just be left alone. He was the only one who really knew Maeve; he didn't want to bombard her with so many new people after living in relative solitude for so long. He also didn't want anyone to feel obligated to stay to look after him—he felt like this was something he had to do by himself.

"Actually, I don't have anything better to do," Morgan told him, with no intention of deserting the person who was like a little brother to him. Still, any profiler could tell that Reid wanted to be alone. "I assume you're staying the night?"

Spencer nodded, before adding, "If she wants me to."

"You want me to swing by your apartment and get you a change of clothes?"

"Yeah, that would be great," Reid was about to give Morgan his keys when he realized he didn't have his bag with him. "Oh, shoot, I left my things back at my desk."

Morgan chuckled at his lack of profanity, and his forgetfulness when his mind was on the woman he loved. Classic Pretty Boy. "I got it, kid." Morgan stood up.

"Thank you," Reid told him genuinely.

"No problem, man," Morgan said before sauntering in the same direction JJ left.

* * *

She picked up before the first ring had finished. "Please tell me our boy genius and his dream girl are okay!"

"Whoa, calm down there, Baby Girl."

"Derek Morgan, do not tell me to calm down when my babies are in danger! You should know better by now. JJ called and said she was leaving the hospital; what happened?!"

"Okay, first, do me a favor, and breathe in, breathe out. Good. Maybe slower this time. All right. Reid and Maeve are fine. He got a graze wound—" Garcia's gasp cut him off. "Hey. In, out. He's fine. Maeve got shot in the arm and she's probably got a concussion, but she'll recover."

"How are they doing?"

"Well, when I left the hospital, Reid seemed to be a little better. I'm headed to his place to pick up some clothes for him to stay there overnight."

"Staying overnight, huh? Is he head-over-heels or what!"

"You bet he is, Mama. I've never seen him like this before. I guess they're a lot more serious than I thought."

"I think I see some digging in my future, Eyebrows."

"Right you are, Hot Stuff. Reid's not getting away with being so secretive. But more of that later. I gotta go."

"Keep me updated, Partner-in-Deduction."

"Will do, Baby Girl."

* * *

"The whole idea of compassion is based on a keen awareness of the interdependence of all these living beings, which are all part of one another, and all involved in one another." – Thomas Merton


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed! The response gave me lots of motivation for this story. ~B

* * *

"Anxiety can just as well express itself by muteness as by a scream." – Soren Kierkegaard

* * *

Reid looked at the ticking white clock. It was nearly ten. It seemed like it should be later; it was a long day. He planned on being at the hospital for at least several more hours—he figured he might as well take a nap. He sighed heavily, leaned his head against the wall behind him, and closed his eyes.

He didn't really fall asleep. He couldn't—not until Maeve was conscious and sound and as at ease as she could possibly be, given the circumstances. He heard the slowing bustle of the hospital around him: the squeak of nurses' shoes on industrial tile, phones and call buttons summoning assistance, and if nothing else, the dull droning buzz of fluorescent lights. Listening to the repetitive hums and dins, so the bedlam and cacophony he couldn't un-hear wouldn't invade his mind.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed in his partially-conscious state, but now heard the recurring thud of boots marring the semi-familiar white noise of his surroundings. He remained in his self-induced numb and dark place a second longer, before he opened his eyes and looked at the origin of the footfalls.

"Hey, kid." Morgan had Reid's messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He handed it to Reid, who set it at his feet. "There's a change of clothes, toothbrush, all that stuff in there. If you need anything else, let me know."

"Thank you," Reid replied, grateful for the doting support of his family that wasn't bound by blood and genes, but something much more important. He really needed it at the moment.

"No problem, man," Morgan replied. "I'm glad to have an excuse to clock in a little late tomorrow."

"Right. Wouldn't want Derek Morgan to ruin his perfect punctuality," Reid smirked mischievously.

He chuckled, pleased that Reid was in a teasing mood. "Hotch said to take the day off. Actually, it seemed like he'd let you take as much time as you need."

Spencer smiled. That meant he could have the entire day with Maeve. Maybe more. "Tell him I said thank you."

"I will, Pretty Boy. I bet your day will be a hell of a lot more fun than mine," Morgan insinuated, raising an eyebrow. Reid blushed slightly, pursing his lips. Morgan grinned suggestively.

* * *

Sometime later, Spencer was pulled out of his head.

"Spencer Reid?"

He turned upon hearing his name and got up. A middle-aged woman in a white lab coat stood before him. "Mr. Reid, I'm Dr. Sherman. Maeve is out of surgery now. The bullet went straight through the tricep and bicep muscles, severing a few blood vessels in the process. Thankfully, the operation went just as expected, and she should make a full recovery."

"Can I see her?"

Dr. M. Sherman, as her name tag indicated, gave a small knowing smile. "She was asking for you. The anesthesia is wearing off, so she's still a little foggy. But if you'd like to wait in her room, that'd be fine."

Reid nodded. The surgeon directed him to Maeve's room before going about her work.

Reid turned to Morgan. He hesitated timidly. "Do you mind if I, uh...go in alone?"

Morgan gave a Cheshire grin. "Aw, sure, I see." He childishly puckered his lips in an exaggerated kissing gesture. Reid's mouth twitched, trying to control his expression. "You know, if I leave now, you're just gonna have to dish a hell of a lot more about your secret girlfriend to me and everyone else later," Morgan taunted wryly.

Reid smirked sheepishly. He supposed it was inevitable, but that was one conversation regarding Maeve that he wasn't exactly looking forward to.

Mercifully, Morgan backed away. "See ya, Playa," he said in a mock-condescending tone. He turned and strutted toward the exit.

Spencer took a deep breath. He slowly turned the handle, quietly pushed the heavy door open, and stepped over the threshold. She was lying on a standard hospital bed. Her eyes were closed. The bright fluorescents were harsh on her pale skin. Her left arm was bandaged, while her right was hooked up to an IV. He turned off the overhead lights, flicking on a side lamp in its place; the softer light wouldn't be as severe, what with the headache that was sure to come with her concussion. The last thing she needed was added discomfort.

He sat in a chair at her bedside, taking her right hand gingerly in both of his. "I'm sorry," he murmured. She stirred, sucking in a quick breath. Her fingers twitched and her eyes opened, blinking into focus. "Maeve?" he whispered tentatively.

She looked to the sound of his voice. "Spencer."

Before he could hone in to the logical part of his brain that asked if she was in pain, if she was scared, the primal, emotional part took over. For one fleeting moment, all he could do was see her.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position—he held his arm out as if she would topple over—locking her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He returned her embrace, gently placing his hands on her back. His left hand drifted up her spine to cradle her head, his fingers delicately tangled in her hair. She burrowed into his bony shoulder, inhaling the smell of cheap coffee, worn books, and tireless toil. She exhaled steadily, reposeful. It was the first time in a long time that she really felt safe.

"Thank you," she murmured into his neck.

He just held her, now that he finally could. It seemed almost surreal to have a physical body attached to this amazing person.

Her grip on him softened, and Reid was reminded how fragile her body was at the moment. He gingerly eased her back onto the pillows.

"What happened?" she muttered groggily.

"What do you remember?" he asked gently. Part of him worried that her memory was impaired, and part of him hoped she couldn't recollect the horrific details of the traumatic event.

She hesitated, biting her lip, eyes glistening. He waited.

She spoke slowly. "Um...I was at the loft. There was a knock at the door, and I went to go see who was there. It was a woman. I'd never seen her before. I opened the door a crack, just to see what she wanted." Maeve paused. Her speech fluctuated between quick phrases and steady hesitant words, with tentative pauses in between. It was so unlike the easy banter Spencer was used to. "She forced her way in... I remember falling into the coffee table...and glass everywhere. Then... It just goes black." She looked down into her palms at the scattered minuscule slices that had long stopped bleeding.

It was the first time Spencer noticed the cuts; usually he was more observant. He counted thirty two total. He almost reached over to caress her open hands, but decided against it. He didn't want to hurt her.

She continued. "The next thing I remember was waking up in this large room. It was like a warehouse. My hands...were bound to a chair. I tried screaming...no one heard me. I was dizzy and I had a bad headache and my throat was dry. It was like that for hours. I didn't see Diane...until she dragged Bobby in." A tear escaped from her eyelids.

Spencer looked at her, unfathomably imagining what she was forced to endure. "You can stop," he told her in a gentle whisper. "You don't have to say anymore about it." While it was important to get Maeve's testimony for evidence's sake, all that could wait. She needn't put herself through that kind of distress at the beginning of her recovery. Besides, Spencer simply couldn't bear to see her so wounded.

"No. It's important. If I don't do this now, I'll forget details." Reid couldn't refute that. And in any case, it might be better for her to get it all out in the open now, as opposed to keeping everything all bottled up; draining a wound could begin the healing. She took a deep breath before speaking. "She tied Bobby to a chair, like she did with me. When he regained consciousness, she just kept threatening him. Trying to make him get information out of me. About you." Her voice cracked.

"What about me?"

Maeve took a deep breath. "She wanted to know...when I knew I had you. I told her about the Penrose triangle."

"That's when she decided to come up with the pi clue," he muttered to himself.

Maeve looked distant. She was back in the loft, being interrogated by Diane. Her hands were bound; she was trapped with the looming threat of a gun ever-present. She told Diane what it was like with Spencer. She felt guilty that Diane had infiltrated their private relationship. It no longer belonged solely to them.

"Maeve," Spencer's voice called her out of her stupor. There was a lump in her throat, closing it up. "We can do this later," he suggested, perceiving her anxiety. Ordinarily, he might pry for a bit more information, but he didn't want to cause Maeve any added distress. Besides, the perpetrator was already apprehended.

She nodded, trying to slow her breathing, which was difficult when her throat felt so constricted.

Spencer watched her wide eyes stare at nothing. There were dark bags of sleeplessness under them. He thought that maybe she was trying to stave off sleep for fear of nightmares, or maybe it was just a hyper vigilant habit. But really it was no use if consciousness offered no sanctuary. It would be better to allow sleep, however temporary, to let her forget everything. "Maybe you should try to get some sleep," he suggested gently. She nodded again, still staring at nothing, making no move to get more comfortable. Spencer glanced around her, seeing that she wasn't going to do this herself. He got up and gingerly pulled the blanket higher up on her. "Come on," he murmured. She responded by sinking a bit deeper into the bed. "Close your eyes." She did, uneasily at first, but soon her eyelids relaxed and her breath became steadier.

Reid exhaled and returned to his seat, a watchful sentinel at her bedside.

_2,413_, he calculated, glancing at his watch. He figured even if—he dreaded the thought—even if she never wanted to see him again after this, he'd at least get a few more hours with her. And at least, even if it wasn't him, someone would get to spend the rest of the hours with her.

* * *

Blake pulled into her driveway, twisted her keys out of the ignition, gathered her things, and walked into the house. James was on the other side of the Atlantic, working at Doctors Without Borders, so the house was empty. She set down her bag and plopped down on the couch, letting out an exhausted sigh.

She'd just wrapped up at the crime scene. A CSI team had finished in both Diane's loft and Maeve's, evidence collected, awaiting the prosecution. Ultimately, the outcome was what one would hope: the victim saved, the unsub apprehended, no fatalities. Theoretically, you couldn't ask for better. But she wasn't nearly at ease.

She was worried about him. Reid had been so nervous and apprehensive about meeting Maeve, and now when he finally did, it was under horrible circumstances. They'd met under duress, with an obsessed stalker waving a gun around, having complete control over the situation. Not ideal conditions for a first date.

She remembered when Spencer had told her about their first meeting gone amiss. She encouraged him to try again, that seeing Maeve would only make the relationship better. Now she felt guilty for pushing him. Maybe if they'd waited to meet, this situation wouldn't have happened. Maybe not. She didn't know. There was almost a responsibility she felt. Not only that she had a role in the outcome, but also that she felt an obligation to make it better.

He was probably still at the hospital; she doubted that Reid would be very willing to leave Maeve's side. She wanted to visit him—not to mention her eagerness to meet Maeve—to see how he was holding up, but it was two in the morning, and visiting hours were well past over.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled to one of her most used contacts. '_Just got home_,' she typed. '_Are you both okay_?' She wasn't expecting a response, at least not until daylight hours. But part of her sensed he wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight.

She grabbed her bag, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs for some well-deserved sleep. Before she could crawl into bed, however, her phone rang. It was a text from Reid. In excited anticipation, she opened it. '_Yeah, we're okay. Maeve's in recovery. She's asleep now_.' She smiled to herself, noticing that his concern went right to Maeve, while disregarding himself. A second text came in. '_Thanks Alex_.'

'_Glad to hear that_,' she replied. '_Please get some rest. You need it. Goodnight_.'

'_Goodnight_,' he sent back. Blake set an early alarm before going to sleep. In the morning, before work, she would stop by the hospital.

* * *

"Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain." – Patrick Rothfuss

* * *

A/N: Reviews/suggestions/critiques are always appreciated. I'd love to hear what you guys want to see when Blake visits them at the hospital.


	4. Chapter 4

"No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another." – Charles Dickens

* * *

In the morning, Maeve woke up with a minor headache and a dull throbbing in her arm. For a second before opening her eyes, she got that feeling of confusion after the realization hit that the bed she was sleeping in was not her own. She saw that she was in the hospital, and she remembered what had gotten her there. She closed her eyes for a second and exhaled, trying to shove down the deluge. She looked to her right, and saw Spencer asleep in the chair next to the bed. _He stayed_, she thought. He stayed, despite the threat to his life that going after her posed. Not only was he willing to risk his own life for her, but he was willing to _trade_ his life for hers. She remembered what he had said at the loft: "_Me for her. Let me take her place_."

They couldn't see each other for ten months because of the danger her stalker presented. He could have left. He could have walked away after the first time she refused his help, or when she was nervous about giving him her phone number, or when she was apprehensive about talking more often. But he didn't. He stayed the entire time, and he stayed now. She hoped that this situation wouldn't drive him away.

She tried to scoot herself up out of the uncomfortable slouchy position she'd slept in; she usually didn't sleep on her back, and the reclined hospital bed wasn't helping. She winced when she moved the muscles in her left arm, and quickly resolved that using it was out of the question. Using one arm, she wiggled with her back against the mattress until she was in a suitable half-sitting position.

Spencer started to stir and rubbed his eyelids with the back of his hand before opening his eyes. He saw that Maeve was already awake and smiled fondly. "Hi," he muttered.

"Hi," she replied, smiling back at him.

"How did you sleep?"

"Wasn't my best night's sleep; wasn't my worst." Spencer wasn't sure what to make of that. He was glad that she was able to get some rest, but it was unsettling to think that she had had worse nights than last.

There was a soft knock on the door before it opened, revealing a nurse. She had a vile and syringe in hand, along with a blood pressure cuff slung around her neck with her stethoscope. "You have a visitor," she announced cheerily. Behind her walked in Blake.

"Alex!" Spencer smiled as he got up. "What are you doing here?"

"I just decided to stop by before work. See how you were doing."

Spencer turned when the nurse asked Maeve for her arm. "I'm going to take your blood pressure before giving you another round of painkillers." She velcroed the blood pressure cuff around Maeve's arm and pressed her stethoscope to the crease in her elbow. After watching the dial move, counting in her head, she removed the cuff. "Your blood pressure is a little low. Have you eaten anything recently?"

"No," Maeve said. Truthfully she was famished. She hadn't eaten since— She didn't want to think about it.

"You should," the nurse advised. "You've gotta get your blood sugar up." Maeve nodded. The nurse extracted liquid from the vile into the syringe, which she then injected into Maeve's IV. "This might make you a little drowsy, but it won't knock you out," she said as the last of the painkiller dripped into the IV. "Alright. If you need anything, let me know," the nurse mentioned before leaving the room.

Introductions were in order. "Maeve, this is Alex. Alex, Maeve." Reid gestured back and forth as he introduced them.

"It's so nice to meet you," Blake said sincerely.

"It's nice to meet you, too," replied Maeve.

Spencer felt a little awkward introducing Maeve to his friend and coworker, and vice versa. He was glad that it was Blake, though. He knew she'd be supportive and nonjudgmental. As much as he loved the rest of his team, they might be too prying. He himself felt a bit like he was walking on ice; he wavered between wanting to show total commitment to Maeve, and not wanting to be adversely intense. Part of him feared that if Morgan was there, his enthusiasm would scare her off. He didn't have to worry about that with Blake.

She was the first person he trusted enough to confide in about Maeve. And she proved her trustworthiness by not gossiping about it to the rest of the team. She gave him advice and encouragement, and was quietly rooting for him when no one else knew he needed it. It only made sense that she was the first person to officially meet Maeve.

"Do you want me to get you some breakfast?" Spencer asked.

Maeve nodded. "Yes, please."

"What would you like?"

"Food." At this point, she didn't care, as long as it was edible. "Something with calories."

Spencer gave a small smile. "Alex, would you like some coffee or something?"

"No, thanks. I got some on the way here."

"Okay." Spencer gave one longing glance at Maeve before leaving for the hospital cafeteria.

Blake turned to Maeve. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Maeve opted to answer solely in regards to her physical condition. "I'm fine. A little achy. Sluggish, which I'm sure the painkillers won't help with."

"Not too languid, I hope."

"Yeah." Maeve smiled. "Most people don't use the word languid conversationally."

"A linguist's curse. Sometimes I have to watch myself so people don't get confused."

"You're not the only one," Maeve assured her. "That's one of the nice things about Spencer. I don't have to dumb myself down to be understood."

Blake smiled. "He'd be glad to hear you say that. He was so nervous about meeting you."

"He was?" Maeve asked, intrigued.

"Very excited, too," Blake amended.

Soon Spencer returned with a tray of food. Maeve sat up eagerly before he handed her the tray. She placed it on her lap and went straight for the cup of red jello.

"I should get going," Blake said. She wasn't one to intrude, and she figured they had a lot of lost time to make up for.

"Let me walk you out," Spencer offered. He wanted a word with her in private before she left.

"Alright. Hope you feel better," she said as she opened the door.

"Thanks," Maeve replied.

Spencer followed her out the door. He walked down the hall a few paces before speaking. "You were right."

Blake tilted her head slightly. "About what?"

"Seeing her _is_ better."

* * *

Spencer fumbled for the unfamiliar key that found its way to the bottom of his bag. It was in the afternoon; Alex had left for the BAU some time ago, and now Reid was on an errand of sorts. Per Maeve's directions, he'd driven to a shady part of town, to a run down building, and now stood in the dilapidated hall outside her hideout. He'd been to grotesque crime scenes in some of the most decrepit parts of the country, yet he was appalled at where Maeve sought refuge. She shouldn't have had to subject herself to those conditions; she deserved no less than the very best.

He jiggled the key, unlocked the door, and stepped over the threshold. Despite the intimidating cinderblock walls and the cold concrete floors of the loft, there was a certain coziness about it that contradicted the outside. Maeve had tried to make herself as comfortable as possible with what little she had.

Before he could seek out what he was there to retrieve, he saw the obvious evidence of a struggle. The loft still looked like a crime scene. Glass shards from a coffee table dominated an area rug beside a gray couch. Reid couldn't help but notice drops of blood among the shiny mess. He didn't allow himself to dwell further; he needed to focus on mending, not avenging. That was the whole reason he was here. He went to the cupboard under the sink, and took out a black garbage bag, a broom, and a dustpan.

He got on his knees and started picking up the largest pieces by hand, careful not to cut himself. Then he did his best to sweep the remaining shards, which seemed to only get smaller and smaller as more was collected. The sheer volume of it was immense. When he got all the glass he could, he gathered what was left of the coffee table and put it in the garbage bag as well.

Now came the harder part: the blood. He found paper towels and a cleaning spray and tried to erase the most vivid piece of evidence.

When he was finished, he went over to the coat rack and saw the small duffel bag on the floor next to it, where Maeve told him it would be. He could only see the fabric of what looked like a shirt and pants on top, and based on the size of it, he guessed there couldn't be much more than two days' worth of clothes. When he had asked her about it, she said, "In case I needed to leave in a hurry." He was accustomed to having a go bag for when he needed to drop everything and catch an unsub; it was hard to imagine needing it to flee from one.

* * *

After Reid returned to the hospital, Maeve was told that she'd be kept for a few more hours for observation, and that she could go home that night. After getting the all-clear and receiving prescription painkillers, she was free to go and signed her release papers. She changed into the clothes that Spencer had brought, glad to be out of the hospital gown. He offered to drive her home, and they were just about to leave, both relieved to soon be out of the medical setting.

Spencer grabbed Maeve's duffel bag. She reached to stop him. "Oh, don't worry about that, I got it."

"No, your shoulder is still healing. You probably shouldn't be carrying it."

"Do you have some kind of medical degree I'm not aware of?" Maeve teased.

"Well, I _am_ a doctor," he smirked. "And in my professional opinion, you should take it easy for a while."

She gave him a quick glare. "Okay, _doctor_," she rolled her eyes mockingly, grabbing her purse before he insisted on carrying that too. She knew he was only trying to help, but she was so used to doing things by herself that she didn't expect or want anyone's assistance.

They were in Spencer's car before the realization hit that soon she would be back at the scene of the crime with nothing there to distract her from the inevitable.

Neither of them was so willing to part just yet. "Are you hungry? We could get something to eat before I take you home," Reid suggested, hoping she'd accept.

"Yes," she responded with enthusiasm. She wasn't looking forward to returning to her loft. And if she could prolong her time with Spencer, it would be even better.

It was getting pretty late, and the only place nearby that was still open was a diner. When they walked in, there was hardly anyone there, which Maeve especially was grateful for; she'd been in high-alert isolation for so long that crowds made her weary. There was '50s music playing softly through the speakers, adding to the chrome-covered atmosphere. They sat across each other in a red upholstered booth, and ordered quickly, given that there were so few customers at this hour. They had just gotten their food when Spencer was reminded of a little unfinished business.

"You remember a couple of weeks back, when we planned to meet at that restaurant?"

"Of course," Maeve confirmed, wondering what he was getting at. She was still perplexed and upset by the thought that Bobby had actually followed her to that restaurant, which had ultimately been what lead to— she resisted the urge to cautiously look over her shoulder.

"Um, I was going to give you something," Reid reached into his bag, suddenly, inexplicably a bit nervous. "And I never got the chance to. So, here." He handed her the copy of _The Narrative of John Smith_, with the bow still on it.

He watched her as her mouth opened into a smile and her eyebrows rose in surprise. She stared at the cover excitedly for a second before asking, "Did you really buy this before you got the one I gave you?"

"Yes," Spencer smiled. "Thank you, by the way. It was really brave of you to do that."

Her smile grew wider. "Thank _you_." She looked back at the cover and the bow that was tied slightly askew. "I love it. Books are the best gifts, aren't they?"

"I think books with quotes in them are even better." Maeve kept looking at the book to hide the slight blush on her cheeks.

Soon they finished their meal, and Spencer got out his wallet to pay. Maeve did the same; she was a firm believer in equal contribution in a relationship, and she didn't like owing people, even him. She already felt as if she owed him so much—her own life being at the top of the list.

"Don't worry about it," Spencer insisted. He knew from Garcia's digging that Maeve hadn't worked in months, draining her savings while trying to hide, and now she had medical bills to pay on top of it.

Maeve started to protest. "It's okay. I can—"

"No, really. You have enough on your plate, figuratively." He was glad to see that she was up to eat more than just jello, juice, and cereal like she had this morning.

Maeve grudgingly closed her wallet. She really couldn't argue. She didn't know how much longer she could last on the pittance she had left. "Thanks."

"You can get the next one," Spencer assured her. She cracked a small smile. She was glad that he intended there to be a next one.

* * *

Reid parked on the street right outside the building. He grabbed Maeve's bag from the trunk of his car, and went to where she was waiting on the sidewalk. He didn't need to be a profiler to see she was anxious. Her eyes darted up and down the street apprehensively, and she held her keys between her fingers to act as a weapon against potential attackers. He didn't say anything; he got the sense that it was routine for her, which only made him more concerned about the security of her hideout. They walked up the stairs in silence. Maeve untangled her keys from around her fingers, and unlocked the door with a shaky hand. There was a second's hesitation before she stepped over the threshold.

Her breathing accelerated and Spencer saw her carotid artery expand and contract rapidly in her neck. Even in the dim light, he saw her unblinking eyes were wide. He saw her stare at the spot where the coffee table had been, and he felt guilty that he'd been unable to get all the stubborn blood splatters out of the rug. They were tangible, angry reminders of something he knew she would rather forget.

She couldn't stay here. He couldn't think of a single thing that would convince him to revisit the cemetery where Tobias Henkel had forced him to dig his own grave. He imagined it was much the same for her.

"Maeve," he called gently. She looked at him with folded arms and glossy eyes. He hesitated, unsure of why these words stuck in his throat. "D-do you...want to stay at my place? You shouldn't have to stay here. Not after..." he trailed off, not wanting to upset her further. She didn't respond right away, which made him question if he was being too forward, or if he broached the subject too soon. But before he could regret taking this risky leap, she nodded quickly—certain, grateful.

She sniffed loudly and wiped under her eye casually, trying to pass it off as an out-of-place eyelash. She darted to the other end of the room to retrieve a fairly large bag.

After she packed new clothes and books, she hurried out of the loft with Spencer behind her. She needed to get out of there; she couldn't imagine sleeping in the place she was attacked, let alone living there. She bound down the stairs, habitually looking down either end of the street before stepping outside. Spencer manually unlocked the passenger side door—necessary on a car as old as his—and opened it for Maeve.

* * *

"Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need." – Khalil Gibran

* * *

A/N: I am so bad with introductions. I always think the whole "Hi, nice to meet you" *handshake* thing is kind of awkward, especially with someone you're meeting for the first time, so I hope Maeve/Blake meeting wasn't too terrible—it took me forever to write. In any case, I hope you enjoyed. Chapter 5 is very intense, so I'm looking forward to that.

Immense thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and followed. It means a lot to me that there are people who show a continued interest in this story. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

"Unfortunately, a super abundance of dreams is paid for by a growing potential for nightmares." – Sir Peter Ustinov

* * *

Spencer's apartment looked like an old library. The first things Maeve noticed were the breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcases that were all stocked. Books were everywhere: stacked on the floor, occupying every table in sight, scattered on chairs. It elicited that unique book-buzz reserved for readers that made one feel more alive. Surrounded by stories and studies, testimonies and anecdotes, allegories and knowledge stimulated both a feeling of exotic excitement and comforting familiarity.

The armchairs and couch weren't configured around a big TV, like what was in many people's houses. Every chair or two was beside a small table and lamp, as if ready for patrons to sit down and read, or talk over a cup of tea. A chessboard near one of the windows appeared to be waiting in mid-game.

Maeve's first impression was that this was exactly the type of place she envisioned Spencer living. On the car ride there, all she wanted to do was forget what her own loft had triggered, and being here certainly helped. "Thank you for letting me stay here," Maeve told Spencer sincerely. It was an enormous relief to be able to stay somewhere disassociated from the stalker or the abduction. It was a step toward safety.

"It's no problem whatsoever; you're more than welcome." Reid had honestly never expected to have Maeve over so soon after finally meeting her, let alone having her actually stay there. Granted, the circumstances weren't ideal, but considering the events of the past twenty four hours—or the past ten months—he was just glad to get this moment at all.

"I'll take the couch," Reid offered. "My bedroom is down the hall, if you want to put your stuff in there." Given that they'd only just met in person, it was the unspoken agreement that one of them would spend the night on the couch.

"You're already doing enough, I don't want to make you sleep on the couch."

"I do it all the time. It's actually pretty comfortable."

"Oh, good. Then you shouldn't feel guilty at all about me sleeping on it." She smirked slightly, taking her bag, dropping it on the couch cushion, and plopping herself down with finality.

Spencer held back a chuckle at her spark of lively determination. Maybe having her stay here would bring her some of the relief she so deserved.

* * *

_Diane reached her resolve. "No," she spat. She very deliberately moved the gun up to her own temple, lining up both herself and Maeve in the path of the bullet._

_"WAIT!" he screamed._

_In the same second, a deafening gunshot seized the air._

_Blood was everywhere. Her still form lay in the sanguine river, lifeless. He drowned in a frenzied paralysis until he felt his insides collapsing in on himself. His chest heaved with heart-wrung tears._

Reid opened his eyes to darkness, but still found himself paralyzed with fear. He gasped desperately, trying to convince himself that it wasn't real; it wasn't real. He had saved her. Maeve was alive.

His fingers trembled violently as he turned on his bedside lamp. He looked around his room wildly. Despite what he knew to be true, there was no physical evidence to prove it. He had to check on her. But it was in the early hours of the morning; if she had managed to catch some sleep, he didn't want to disturb her. Not when she was sure to wake from terrifying nightmares as he had.

He sat up and got his breathing to a more reasonable pace. Still, as reality became more tangible, he was not convinced. He had to see her, just to make sure she was there. He figured he could quietly walk into the hall, see her asleep on the couch, and go right back to bed. He sauntered to his bedroom door and silently twisted the knob.

* * *

Maeve sat up wide eyed and panicky. She had barely drifted off to sleep before that horrible, sickening, familiar feeling of panic consumed her. Being in new surroundings didn't completely keep her demons at bay. She threw off the blanket and began to pace. _You're okay_, she told herself, something she'd been doing a lot in the past several months. _You're fine_. She tried to get her breathing under control, but it quickened and hitched intermittently. Why couldn't she calm down? Being afraid wasn't new to her, and now she didn't have reason to be afraid at all. She kept pacing. She looked down the hall and saw the light on under Spencer's door. She sauntered toward it: perhaps he was awake, too. She held her fist up to the door but stopped herself from knocking and let her arm fall to her side. She didn't want to be bothersome. What had she thought coming to him would accomplish anyway? He'd done so much for her already and she was still on edge. What more could he do?

Just as she was about to turn back around, the door slowly opened. Spencer stood in the doorway, then took a small step back, surprised that she was there.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I—"

"It's okay. I was awake." His eyes were still full of sleep.

"Sorry I kept you up."

"No, it's not you," he assured her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she answered automatically. She tried to come up with a plausible explanation as to why she was at his door in the wee hours of the morning. "It's just, I couldn't sleep, and I—" Her eyes suddenly got glassy and she blinked back tears as they spilled over. Why did she have to stupidly lose it in front of him? Why now? "Sorry," she sniffled, her voice cracking.

"Hey," Spence murmured. "Please don't cry." He slowly enveloped his arms around her, wanting to comfort her, but not wanting to be too forceful. She returned the hug as she turned her face into his shoulder. "You don't have anything to apologize for." They stayed like that, swaying slightly in each other's arms. It was very comforting: it was an unbelievable relief to have her in his arms; it felt like it had been ages since the last time someone held her gently like this.

"Thank you," she whispered. She gently kissed his neck right below his ear. Spencer felt himself blush with giddy excitement. He hoped the dark would hide just how pink his face was. He exhaled steadily.

He slid his hands down her back, her arms, and found her hands as they entwined around his. "Any chance you could get some sleep?" he asked evenly. She shook her head, no. "Come here." They walked hand-in-hand to the couch, and sat down facing each other.

"You don't have to stay up with me. You need sleep, too."

"I don't think I'll be able to."

"Don't you have to get up for work tomorrow?"

"I'm taking some time off. I have some vacation days saved up, plus I think it's important to recuperate."

She nodded absently, her mind clearly on other, unwelcome things. She kept a straight face, wiped of emotion, but a couple of tears fell silently down her cheeks. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes unblinking.

Should he get her some tissues? Reid felt a bit out of his element. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know how. He wished he could get JJ's advice; she was always good at bringing some level of peace to people who had endured the most unimaginable tragedies. _Come on, Spence_, he could almost hear her say. He tentatively reached over and put a hand on Maeve's knee in a comforting gesture, like he'd seen JJ do on countless occasions.

To his relief, Maeve looked up at him and gave the tiniest of smiles. She put her hand on top of his: a small, wordless thank you.

"Can we just talk?" she asked softly.

_Good_, he thought. _Something I can do to make her feel better_. "What do you want to talk about?"

Maeve shrugged. "Anything. Anything to stop me from thinking about…" She closed her eyes briefly, as if to ward off the memories.

Spencer spoke softly. "Okay. Um… Did you know that in Irish mythology, 'Medb'—'Maeve' being the Anglicized version—is a warrior queen? She ruled over Connacht. Her troops were having nightmares, so she gave them mead that made them sleep well. The name literally means 'intoxicating'. It's fitting." He paused in deliberation, thinking that perhaps he'd said too much.

But then she blushed, smiling bashfully. "What does 'Spencer' mean?"

"It's Middle English, meaning 'keeper of provisions'."

"Very appropriate."

"How so?"

Maeve shrugged. "You're selfless. You put others' needs above your own."

"Well…I largely have you to thank for that."

"Spencer, I did not make you altruistic; it's one of your many attractive inherent qualities."

Spencer smiled. "That's nice of you to say."

She smiled back. "It's nice of you to always be so kind."

She seemed much more at ease. Spencer's concern for her was unending. "Maeve? You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I am now. I just was having a bad night, I guess." Spencer sighed. So that was what a bad night was like.

"What did you mean when you said last night wasn't your worst?"

Maeve inhaled and exhaled slowly before answering. "There were times…getting threatening phone call after threatening phone call…where I would lay in bed, awake, absolutely terrified. The stalker could be right outside, and I wouldn't know. At least if I'd known who it was, there would have been a specific person to look out for, but there wasn't. I would be in a parking lot, getting groceries, and I remember thinking, _It could be you_, to virtually every person I passed. I put myself in this forced isolation because there came a point where I was…afraid to…be around people…. You were the reason I got out." She paused. "All you wanted to do was help me, and I refused." He began to speak but she shook her head. "I was scared. I… You were the one person I could talk to…and for a few minutes, every Sunday, I could forget why I was terrified.

"What was it like for you?"

He gave a small sideways smile. "I've never known a normal day in my life. My job has been my life, and I can't imagine doing anything else. But…I don't know. I had something to look forward to when a case was done, outside of work. Talking with you brought this normalcy and at the exact same time this extraordinary, nameless thing that I've never experienced before. I don't know how to describe it. Just…" It was frustrating having no name for it. He was reminded of trying to do the same thing in the hospital. _A lexical gap_, he thought again. There wasn't a single word in the English language—or any other language that he was aware of—that sufficiently described her. But he could try. "I love you."

This time it wasn't a slip; it wasn't blurted out in a flustered moment of stress. It was a statement, a vulnerability, an undeniable truth. It was like he'd cut himself open and offered her part of what was inside.

Maeve gave him a pleased smile. "I love you, too."

* * *

They watched the sunrise through the windows. They'd stayed awake the whole night, just talking. They fell easily into their customary banter that they'd both grown so used to. Now, it was different, but only in the best ways. Instead of merely hearing it, they could see one another smile, watch each others faces when they laughed, observe their contemplative looks when the conversation got a bit heavier.

There were no outside distractions to interrupt them. No summons to catch a killer, no uneasy feeling that someone was watching. There was no one but themselves to interrupt them, which rarely happened. That was one of the many things that Spencer appreciated about Maeve, and vice versa: they could ramble about the most obscure, scholarly topic, without being cut off or given a look of alienating confusion. There would be follow up remarks, questions, mentions of conflicting theories. And it wasn't solely intellectual, either. They could engage in philosophical discussions, or prattle about the mundane, everyday stuff. It was endless, effortless, and never boring. They both appreciated having an equal.

When it reached a reasonable hour, when people were waking up and going to work or school, Reid got up to make a pot of coffee. After pulling an all-nighter, caffeine was a necessity. The coffeemaker was easily the most used appliance in Reid's kitchen; between his dependence on the stuff, and his limited cooking ability—he had more takeout menus than pots and pans—it was one of the few kitchen skills he was good at.

He returned to the living room with two mugs: five sugars for himself, and two creams, three sugars for Maeve.

"Here you go," he said, handing Maeve her cup.

"Thanks." She took a sip, pleasantly surprised, though she figured she shouldn't be all that surprised by now; it was exactly the way she liked it. She smiled. "This is _really_ good." Of course they'd had a conversation about how they liked their coffee. But despite knowing the capacity of his eidetic memory, and she remembering how he liked his coffee—loaded with sugar—they had brought it up months ago, and she was frankly impressed that he not only remembered, but also that he took the time to adhere to her preferences. She didn't remember the last time someone made coffee just for her that she didn't have to pay for. She wasn't used to people going out of their way for her. If she had to guess, she would say that probably the last person to make her breakfast was one of her parents, several years ago when she lived with them for a brief period after college. She realized how much she missed little things like that.

"Thanks," Spencer replied. "You learn a thing or two when you form a dependence on it." Maeve laughed. That was another thing he loved about her; even if no one else did, at least she found him funny.

* * *

Reid stared dully at his scruffy reflection in the bathroom mirror. He hadn't gotten around to shaving in a while, but perhaps it was time he did, so he didn't look like the yeti. He robotically got out his razor and smeared on shaving cream, really in need of a good night's sleep. He let his mind wander, keeping tabs on his heavy eyelids, which drooped intermittently; the coffee hadn't kicked in yet. There was a sudden, sharp sting along his jaw. "Ah!" He cursed internally as a drop of blood started to run down his neck.

"You okay?" Maeve called from the other room in response to his exasperation.

"Yeah. Just remind me never to shave when I'm sleep deprived."

He heard her footsteps, and a second later saw her step through the open door of the bathroom. "Ow," she exclaimed upon seeing the blood soak through the tissue he held to his cheek. He gave her a dorky look of apprehension: mouth turned down, teeth exposed, eyebrows askew in mock-worry. She laughed at his goofiness. That wasn't the type of thing she could perceive over the phone. "Here, let's get that cleaned up." She looked through the cabinet, took out first aid supplies and soaked cotton balls in hydrogen peroxide. "Has the bleeding slowed down?" She stood right in front of him and gingerly moved his hand where he held the tissue to his wound.

"I think so," he said, trying not to squeak. He was fine last night, suave even. Why did he have to be so awkward now? Perhaps it had to do with the morning light making all this seem less dream-like.

She dabbed the cut with one of the cotton balls. His jaw tightened from the cold sting of the antiseptic. She got another cotton ball and dabbed until it came away blood-free.

This was uncharted territory. Never had a woman stayed overnight in his apartment, never mind long enough to experience his lack of coordination during his morning routine, or to help clean up the resulting mess he'd made of his face. But it wasn't weird; it felt oddly normal.

"That ought to do it," she said, wiping a cotton ball over the remaining liquid before discarding it. "Just a friendly reminder: don't shave when you're sleep deprived. I hear it's very hazardous." Before he could respond with some witty remark, she reached up and kissed the edge of his jaw. He blushed profusely, caught off guard.

She returned the first aid supplies to the cabinet. "Thanks for the reminder," he squeaked, his voice as creaky as a rusty gate hinge.

"Any time."

He tried not to think of how her kisses were getting progressively closer to his lips.

* * *

"Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within." – James Baldwin

* * *

A/N: Information for Maeve's name came from Wikipedia. When I was researching that, I looked at some of the basic mythology, and turns out the warrior queen Mebd was a total badass. If you're interested in mythology, I'd recommend checking it out. I was glad to find that Maeve's name had such awesome origins.

Once again, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, etc. As always, the feedback is much appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

"Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts." – Charles Dickens

* * *

The day was coming to a close, and Spencer and Maeve decided to wind down with a movie. Maeve was relieved to have an excuse, however temporary, to put off a nightmare-ridden attempt at sleep. Normal distractions were quite welcome.

Reid sat near the middle of the couch, giving an invitation for Maeve to sit right next to him, but still allowing her to have her space if needed. He wasn't familiar with the proper etiquette for watching a movie on a couch with a lady-friend who was more than a friend. She sat next to him in a friendly, shoulders-barely-touching gesture. Despite not really knowing where to put his hands, or if he was invading her personal space, Reid felt comfortable sitting here with her.

They both relaxed on the leather sofa, engrossed in the 1940s version of _Great Expectations_. Neither one was a movie-talker, so they remained silent in the dark living room.

Being in the dark at night usually put Maeve on edge. Her sleep schedule had been nonexistent for ten months; she had often spent nights lying awake in the dark, too afraid to turn on the lights, for fear that she'd be seen, but also afraid of what lay in the shadows. But now she wasn't afraid. She could allow herself to relax, she was at ease. She didn't have to be afraid anymore. It was both liberation and relief—both the chains cut and the weight lifted. But she wasn't left vulnerable and exposed: quite the opposite actually. She felt safe.

The movie was nearing the end, and had reached a climactic scene when Spencer felt something lean against him. He looked over and saw Maeve resting her head on his shoulder, asleep. He smiled to himself, briefly wondering how she could have fallen asleep during one of the most exciting parts. It was good that she could finally sleep, though, after being deprived of it. Fear didn't give one a restful mind.

He turned down the volume so as not to disturb her, and spent the rest of the movie watching her sleep. It was still surreal to be able to look at her, to observe her expressions and gestures wordlessly. Her eyelids fluttered in her sleep, and her lips twitched into a brief smile. Spencer let out a tired sigh.

* * *

Maeve jerked awake with a start. The only bit of her nightmare that remained was the feeling of terror. She was much safer in reality than she was in her dreams. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to steady herself. Looking around Spencer's empty apartment, she realized she was alone. She let out a shaky sigh. She noticed a scrap of paper on the table in front of her. It looked like it had been ripped out of a notebook, and she recognized the handwriting as Spencer's. Curious, she picked it up and read:

_Went out to get breakfast. Be back soon. Love you. – Spencer _

She let out a tiny smile. She stretched, got up, and wandered into the small kitchen. She sat at the kitchen table and began reading this morning's newspaper. Last night the nightmares still came, but they had receded somewhat—she'd had much worse. Maybe falling asleep without being alone had helped.

Maeve finished reading all the articles that caught her interest, as well as her favorite comics, and was now lazily browsing. She flipped the page, and something caught her eye. It was an obituary. She swallowed nervously, and started reading the half page about Bobby's life and death.

He was described as charismatic and charming. The obituary failed to mention his less-than-redeeming qualities. Controlling. Manipulative. The way it described him, he wasn't possessive, he was concerned; not jealous, but protective. And there certainly were times when he was charismatic and charming. But if you stuck around long enough—as she had—those attributes changed.

Still… He may not have been the golden boy Samaritan he was portrayed to be, but he didn't deserve to die.

A difficult conundrum laid before her: should she go to the funeral? She scanned through the paper for information about the funeral services, but it only gave a where, not a when. No one had told her about it.

She picked up her phone and dialed. She needed her most reliable confidante to help her sort through this. After a few rings, she picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, hon'. How are you doing?"

"Uh, the arm's still kind of sore, but the medication helps with that." She had called her mom when she was in the hospital. It had been brief, just to let her know that she was okay, and that the threat had finally stopped. Maeve decided not to tell her mom about the nightmares. There was something very personal and private about it, plus she needn't worry about something that she couldn't help.

"So you're out of the hospital now?"

"Yeah, I was released a couple of days ago."

"You're not staying at the loft, right? Where are you?"

"I'm…staying with a friend."

"And you're safe?"

"Yeah, absolutely. I'm safe."

She heard her mother sigh in relief. "That's good to hear. So, what's going on?"

"Sort of a moral dilemma."

"Uh oh, tell me about it."

"I don't know whether or not I should go to Bobby's funeral."

"Ah."

She told her mother about the obituary, and how no one had tried to contact her, and the guilt she felt. "I can't ignore the fact that if it weren't for me, he'd still be alive."

"Maeve, don't you dare blame yourself for this. You hear me? This is not your fault."

"Yeah. But…I still feel like I should pay my respects."

"Look, if they wanted you to come, someone would have told you. But you know his parents, the self-righteous—"

Maeve turned to the sound of keys rattling in the door. A minute later Spencer walked into the kitchen carrying a tray with coffee and a brown paper bag that presumably contained their breakfast.

"Mom," she interrupted her mother from going on a rant.

"They think their son can do no wrong. And I wouldn't put it past them to hold you responsible for this whole—"

"Mom," Maeve cut in, more forceful this time.

"You know I don't like those people. Anyway, I don't see any obligation for you to go—you don't owe him anything. I think you're entitled to want to stay out of conflict. And it's probably better if you didn't revisit that whole mess."

"I know. And you're right. But…"

"Do you want to go?"

Maeve hesitated, then sighed. "No."

"Then don't. It's that simple. Regardless of what you feel obligated to, or what I tell you, if you don't want to go, you don't want to go."

"Okay. Thanks, Mom. Um, I've got to go. Tell Dad I said hi."

"I will. Talk to you soon. Love you."

"Love you, too." Maeve hung up and turned to Spencer. "Hi."

"Hi." He handed her one of the coffee cups. "I got you a latte."

"Thank you. What's in the bag?"

"Muffins." He noticed her distracted demeanor, and her tone when she was on the phone. "Everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah, it's just…I didn't know if I should go to Bobby's funeral. I'm not. But, it feels awkward either way. I still feel a little guilty about it."

"You shouldn't."

"I know. It's just habit, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"He used to make me feel guilty all the time." Spencer furrowed his brows. She didn't deserve that. Maeve sighed. "Bobby was my first serious relationship; I thought that was how it was supposed to be. I thought that was as good as it got. I didn't realize that there was so much more.

"While going into hiding was terrifying and unpleasant, there was a bit of good that came out of it. Even though I was almost exclusively confined inside, I had a different kind of freedom. I liked that he was out of my life. I'm almost glad I had an excuse to leave. I didn't feel like I needed his approval or permission for anything. It was very freeing.

"But at the same time, it was kind of lonely. I missed having someone there. I was afraid that I would eventually go back to him when the loneliness became unbearable. I didn't want to go back. It was...confining with him. I felt like I had to fit into his box, so to speak, when I was with him. It wasn't like it is with us. I didn't feel like I was one of two; I felt like I was half of one, if that makes any sense."

"How?" Spencer inquired.

"It was like I wasn't allowed to be whatever I wanted with him. Like I somehow wasn't good enough on my own. We weren't equals." She paused thoughtfully. "When I met you, it was entirely different. It was effortless. I didn't feel like I wasn't good enough, because you made me feel like I was."

Spencer smiled. She was incredible. And because she was so amazing, it made him feel amazing himself. That was why he loved her. Apparently she felt the same way.

"I don't feel any restrictions with you. I don't have to choose between freedom and companionship. And I can't tell you how grateful I am for that." She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

It seemed she was the only one who could make Spencer speechless.

* * *

After they finished dinner—Reid had decided to be adventurous and make pasta—they congregated in the living room. Spencer had noticed that Maeve routinely dreaded this time of night. She knew that there were only hours until another nightmare.

"Do you think it'll ever get any easier?" she whispered.

"They do go away," said Spencer. Maeve gave him a questioning look. "The nightmares. At first…I thought I'd get them forever. And there were times when one would come back years later, out of the blue. But I haven't had one in a really long time." Come to think of it, he barely had any nightmares since he'd known Maeve, aside from a few nights ago. "They'll go away for you, too."

"Do you mind me asking what they were about?" she asked cautiously.

"Tobias Hankel." The name meant nothing to her, so she waited for an explanation. "Several years ago, we were on a case in Georgia," Spencer began. This was the first time since the actual event that he brought it up. He had never told anyone. He paused hesitantly. This was the curse that came with an eidetic memory: he'd never be able to forget. But he urged himself to continue. If there was one person in the world he could tell, it was Maeve.

All the while, Maeve waited patiently. She didn't want to push him—clearly this was something that didn't come easy to him. She knew personally that you couldn't just reveal your demons to anyone.

"JJ and I were investigating a lead," Spencer sighed. "We were going after a suspect, chasing after him. The property was huge, so…we split up. I was running through a cornfield. I heard JJ scream, and when I turned, I felt something hit me hard in the head, and I blacked out." His voice was soft and raspy, his eyes nervous. This wasn't a side of him that Maeve often saw. Still, she waited silently, not wanting him to feel like a victim.

He continued. "I woke up and it was dark. I was in this small shack, and it smelled terrible. I was tied to a chair in the middle of the room—" Spencer cut himself off. That had been how he'd found Maeve; he didn't want to trigger any of her bad memories while letting out his own. He looked at her with concern, and she gave a small nod, letting him know she was okay, and urging him to go on.

He told her everything. Hankel's multiple personalities. Choosing someone from the computer screens to save. The Russian roulette. Picking someone from his team to sacrifice. Being beaten. Being forcibly shot up with Dilaudid. The flashbacks to his childhood. Digging his own grave.

Maeve sat and patiently listened the whole time, in part because she couldn't think of anything to say. When he finished, she remained silent for a few moments, digesting it.

"Why did you decide to tell me this?" she finally asked. Surely this was something he wanted to forget. Why resurface it?

"I don't know." Spencer pondered her question. "I guess I figured…because I _could_ tell you. I've never told anyone about it before. Maybe I thought it was something I needed to get out."

Maeve nodded; she could understand that. "You know," she began slowly, "it's okay to feel weak sometimes," she assured him comfortingly. "It doesn't make you any less strong. It just makes you human."

He nodded gratefully, understanding. "Thanks, Maeve."

She smiled back at him. "Let's watch something funny tonight." While she loved _Great Expectations_, she wanted something lighter to combat the heavy topics. It was enough drama for one day.

"Okay," Spencer agreed. "Do you like Oscar Wilde?"

They decided on _The Importance of Being Ernest_. They'd both read the play, and enjoyed the light-hearted frivolity and satire that it consisted of. It would be nice to have someone else to appreciate the early twentieth century humor for a change.

As the movie started, they curled up on the couch together. Unlike before, any of the polite acquaintanceship pretenses were gone; Reid reclined with his feet up and his arm around Maeve, she with her legs tucked under her, leaning affectionately into him.

It was so nice to laugh together. They could feel each other's sides shiver with each chuckle and giggle. Even without seeing their faces, they were each accustomed to hearing the other smile.

At one particularly comedic moment, they both cracked up inconsolably. An onlooker would surely deem them insane for becoming hysterical at a line that would go over the head of anyone less intellectually minded than the two of them. Spencer found himself laughing more because she was laughing than because of the actual joke. Maeve buried her face into Spencer's shoulder in an effort to stifle her lingering giggle. Swiftly, he leaned over and kissed her hair lovingly, unthinking, a wide grin still on his lips.

He smiled proudly to himself. _Wow_, he thought. _That was bold_.

Maeve untucked from her hiding spot, and looked up at Spencer through long eyelashes, a coy smile on her lips. They both inched closer, bridging the small gap between them. Gingerly, their lips met. It was gentle and slow and tentative, then evolved into something more certain, more familiar, and more trusting.

They lingered a bit longer before parting, nervous, excited, and expectant. Their laugher was accompanied with shallow breaths and racing heartbeats and hazy thoughts.

* * *

"Never love someone who treats you like you're ordinary." – Oscar Wilde

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Reviews are very appreciated; they honestly make my day.


	7. Chapter 7

"Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and the senses." – Lao Tzu

* * *

'_We have a case. Are you coming?_' Reid could virtually hear Garcia's 'pleeease!' as he read her message. He sighed.

His time off with Maeve had been wonderful, but he began to feel that familiar pull, that sense of duty that he got between cases; he missed his family. He had already taken a few days off, which sounded plenty sufficient, but it didn't seem nearly that long. Nevertheless, it was time he returned to work.

"What is it?" Maeve asked, noticing that Spencer's attention was diverted. They had just finished breakfast, and were cleaning up in the kitchen.

"It's work. A case came up."

Reid quickly got ready for work. When he emerged from his room, Maeve was by the door, waiting for him. She smiled at his mismatched socks—something she'd recently grown accustomed to—and his crooked tie. She went up to him, and fussed with his tie until it was a bit straighter. "Be safe," she told him, her fingers still lingering by his neck.

He nodded instead of speaking, because she was leaning in to kiss him and he couldn't say a thing. Just like the first time, it started slow, and he kissed her back lightly. Her hand drifted up his neck and rested at his jaw. He took her face gently in his hands for a moment before they parted.

"Now go; you don't want to be late," she said softly. He nodded again, and grudgingly stepped toward the door. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he managed to get out. He gave her a final glance before walking out the door. His heart raced even more than the first time.

* * *

He arrived at the FBI headquarters, and got his expression under control as he stepped off the elevator. Walk into the BAU with a strange look on his face, and he might as well be skipping, yelling excitedly, 'We kissed! I kissed Maeve, and it was fantastic!' You couldn't hide anything from profilers.

"Reid!" He had been at work for not yet five minutes before Garcia bombarded him. He froze, fearing she had him found out. "It's so good to see you. How's our girl?" Reid blushed a bit at the way she said 'our girl', like not only was Maeve his, but also that the team had adopted her into their BAU extended family. At least Garcia saw it that way.

"She's better." He thought of Maeve's goodbye this morning, and shoved the thought down before his face gave him away. "Much better," he added. "Thanks for asking."

"What did you do while you were gone?"

He hesitated. "Nothing much."

"Oh, come on, you didn't do nothing," Garcia pried.

"I watched a couple movies," he offered.

They were called to the BAU room before she could ask any more questions, much to Reid's relief, and Garcia's regret.

After being briefed about the case—victims found completely drained of blood and hastily disposed of with minimal concealment—Hotch announced, "Wheels up in thirty," as was routine. Everyone got up to leave.

"Reid." Hotch called Reid's attention with his usual stern expression. "Can I have a word." It wasn't a question, but an order. Reid nodded a bit apprehensively. "I've received information regarding Maeve's abduction, and what's to follow in court.

"Diane Turner is in intensive care under police supervision. The trial won't be held until she is well enough to be released into police custody. In any case, there is a waiting period of several months. In that time, I'd advise you to prepare for it; does Maeve have a lawyer?"

"No."

"She should get one. I have a few former colleagues who still practice criminal law if she'd like a referral. If you have a good case, it's possible for Ms. Turner to be tried for multiple charges, those being stalking, kidnapping, harassment, and murder." Hotch was no longer a prosecutor; his job ended when the criminal was caught and the paperwork was filled out. He wasn't obligated to advise Reid about the trial. "Think about it," he said dismissively.

"Thanks, Hotch."

Hotch nodded once, and the two agents got ready to board the jet.

* * *

Throughout the entire case, Reid felt uneasy. It wasn't because the unsub was painting with blood, or even that he was removing his victim's eyelids—Reid had grown accustomed to things like that, as hard as they were to swallow. His uneasiness came from something he had far less practice in; his teammates kept asking about Maeve.

It wasn't that Maeve embarrassed him in any way—the exact opposite actually: there was something about her that made him proud. It was just that he didn't appreciate being in the spotlight. His teammates' curiosity was relentless; being profilers, they wouldn't let the issue drop when he was having so much trouble controlling his facial expressions. One minute twitch of his lips, or avoidance of eye contact, and they pounced.

He understood their interest, of course. But when he was trying to focus on the case, it wasn't entirely welcome. He didn't want to think about Maeve right in the middle of thinking about blood. Right now, as much as he'd rather be thinking about her, he had to think about the motives behind murder.

Eventually, his teammates had relented, for the moment, and he was able to piece together why the unsub was exsanguinating his victims, separating the plasma, and painting in blood. Reid presented his conclusion that the unsub was a hemophiliac to the team. Garcia was able to narrow down her search to a final candidate, and the team was off to nab the guy.

Blake remained, and looked at him quizzically. "You seem a little distracted. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

"Thinking about her?"

He smiled, admitting it. "Yeah."

"When everyone else is on their way back , why don't you call her? Let her know you'll be home soon."

Reid nodded. "I will." He knew that would help, and he was going to anyway. He wanted to hear her voice.

* * *

The dreams always ended the same way. They began differently, with varying elements, people, locations. Maeve would be drinking tea in a library, or ambling through sprawling gardens—any number of things really—and before she knew it, the figure would signal the end. The black hooded cloak, the face obscured in shadow, the hand carrying out her fate.

Sometimes Spencer was there, too, beside her. When he was there, before the shadowed figure came, there was brilliant vibrancy. There was contentment, comfort, safety.

And then the figure would appear. Never was there a grand entrance—sometimes she wasn't even aware of its presence at first. It would come slowly, quietly, creeping in such a way that could not possibly be perceived as a threat. It went unnoticed. Then, seemingly all at once, it would come into her view, and be upon her, taking her to some unknown other place.

She would always wake up before arriving.

As of late, they had been easier to shake off. Perhaps it had to do with new surroundings, or the elimination of the perceived threat, or finally having someone there. Whatever the reason, she was grateful that they were becoming easier to cope with.

This time the dream was different. It began much the same as the others:

_She and Spencer were dancing, waltzing through a grandiose ballroom. He looked quite the dapper gentleman in an impressive tuxedo, and he acted the part. His attention never wavered from her. They smiled, and they laughed, completely entranced in each others' company. It was like something out of a Jane Austen novel. _

_By degrees, the ballroom got emptier and quieter, though she paid no attention. Someone tapped her shoulder, and as she turned, was whisked away by the stranger. Spencer's warm touch was replaced by the cold one of her new dance partner. She was twirled dizzyingly, and she caught only blurred glimpses of her gentleman as she drifted further and further away. As she spun wildly, she saw him hold his hand out, palm up, a wounded look of rejection contorting his features. Her dream-world quickly transformed into a nightmare._

_The room raced by epileptically, and there was a horrible pounding in her head. She spun faster still, until the only distinguishable thing was the figure that kept her in this state. _

_All at once, the spinning stopped, and everything but her and the cloaked figure was gone. It was dark, and she felt herself pressed in a chair—otherwise she would have surely fallen over. Her hands were bound, her head ached, and she had to resist the urge to vomit. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the black cloak standing in front of her, its face in shadow. Its hand rose fatally. Instead of a sickle, it held a gun._

Maeve jolted awake just as the shot rang through the air. The ringing persisted, and she realized it was her phone. That was probably what had woken her up. She looked at the caller ID and sighed in relief. She exhaled to steady herself before picking up.

"Hi," she answered a bit tiredly.

"Hi," Spencer said back, and she heard him smile. "Sorry it's kind of late. I didn't have an opportunity to step away from the case."

"Don't worry about it," she assured sincerely—she was well aware of what his job entailed. She was grateful he called when he did. Talking with him always seemed to help. "When do you think you'll be all wrapped up?"

"Soon. We're just finishing things up at the police station, and we'll be on the plane soon."

She smiled. "Good. I'll be happy to have you back."

Spencer was glad he was alone, because surely his fellow profilers wouldn't have let his blush go unnoticed. "Hey, um, I was thinking…" he started. "Maybe when I get back…we could go to the Smithsonian? I haven't been in years. I think it would be fun."

Maeve grinned. "I would love that." As expected, he made everything better.

* * *

The team returned to Quantico with yet another unspeakable case under their belts, and yet more paperwork to fill out. But, as often was the case, they weren't thinking about that. Not when much happier, and much more interesting things were waiting at home.

"Reid sure left in a hurry," Morgan observed, after watching Reid hastily gather up his things at his desk, and mutter a rushed goodbye to his teammates. Morgan sauntered to where Garcia was leaning against his desk.

"Indeed he did," Garcia hinted. "I have a theory about that."

"Would it happen to involve him and a certain lady in his life?"

"It just might," she taunted with a raised eyebrow. "So what do you think is going on with the whole Raeve situation?"

"The what situation?"

"Raeve. Like Reid and Maeve. It's their couple name."

"Okay, Crazy."

"What do you think is going on with them?" Garcia persisted.

"Oh, you mean, is Pretty Boy getting a little some'n some'n?"

"I didn't mean to be quite so vulgar, but yes."

Morgan chuckled. "Your guess is as good as mine, Garcia."

"No, it's not, 'cause you can do your profiler-y thing and figure out all those juicy details. I can't exactly do that by tracking Reid's very limited online activity. You know…if I were to stoop to that."

"Oh, so hacking into his computer is sleazy but profiling his micro-expressions isn't?"

"You know our adorkable genius won't spill any beans about whatever hanky-panky is happening." Morgan laughed. "Deny it if you aren't even a teensy bit curious."

He sighed and smiled at her indulgently. "Maybe I'm a little curious."

"That's the spirit."

"It's not 'cause I want to be all up in his business."

"Oh, pish-posh. You know under those tough-guy abs, you're a big ol' gossip."

Morgan huffed derisively. "Okay, so what's your theory?"

"Well they hadn't seen each other during that whole ten month secret correspondence thing _at all_. Can you imagine what that was like? I mean, even if you meet someone online, there are profile pictures—you don't know someone and not know what they look like. And for _ten months_! That's almost a whole year—"

"Garcia."

"Right, getting to the point. There had to be some crazy curiosity going on there, like, pent-up sexual frustration. And then they get this big reveal, followed by time _alone_?" She emphasized 'alone' as if it was completely obvious what came next. "And with Reid being in a hurry to leave—"

"Baby Girl, do you think Reid would do that?"

Garcia raised her eyebrows. "Did you think Reid would have a secret girlfriend?" she asked rhetorically. "He was being very mysterious about what he did with his time off, which is very unlike him. I just think that now, he has some very…shall we say intimate experiences that he thinks would be unsuitable to share."

Morgan shook his head, amused at her speculations. "Well you got one thing right: Reid's not a kiss-and-tell kind of guy."

"Uh-huh," Garcia grinned mischievously. "Which makes you think, what exactly hasn't he been telling?"

* * *

Reid arrived at his apartment and opened the door in eager anticipation. Finally, he would do what he had wanted to do the whole time he was away: be with Maeve.

For just a second before she looked up at him, he saw the idyllic image of her, sitting in an armchair, reading a book, a cup of tea on the table beside her. Their eyes met and he watched her beam excitedly. He wasn't used to coming home to someone waiting for him. Perhaps now, it was something he could get used to.

She hastily put her book down and rushed to greet him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and he felt hers circle round his neck. After a moment, she leaned back, and he followed reflexively, joining his lips to hers. He retreated, surprised at himself, though he wasn't sure why—kissing her was one of the many perks of having her as his girlfriend, so he supposed he should get used to it. He paused, the thought finally sinking in: _she_ was _his_ _girlfriend_.

Maeve smiled, and kissed him back eagerly.

They broke apart for a moment, and Spencer told her, "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she breathed, and leaned in to kiss him again.

He didn't want there to ever be a time when he didn't come home to that.

* * *

"One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night." – Margaret Mead

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! As always, reviews/critiques/suggestions are welcome and appreciated.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So so sorry for the late update! I haven't given up, and it is nowhere near finished. I've been super busy with both school and personal stuff, and have been horribly negligent of this story. Thank you for your patience.

Spoilers for 8x14 "All That Remains"

* * *

"There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect." – G.K. Chesterton

* * *

There seemed to be an excitement in the air that became more concentrated as they entered the confined space of the car. Spencer and Maeve were heading to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, as was planned. They'd both been looking forward to it since Spencer made the suggestion.

Reid had just started the car when his phone rang. He picked it up and felt a dull sense of dread. It was a text from Garcia.

Maeve took in his deflated expression and she understood. "You have a case," she stated.

Spencer pressed his lips into a hard line. "I have a case."

Maeve knew how demanding being an FBI agent was. She knew that there were times when a case came in, and Spencer had to be ready to leave within the hour—in the type of cases he was involved in, mere minutes could make the difference between someone's life or death. She also knew how much his job meant to him. Even though he wasn't all too motivated to do that job right now, he had a duty to do so, and he ultimately wouldn't feel right if he didn't. She admired him for that.

Spencer sighed. "Maeve, I'm so sorry—"

"Go." She shook her head slightly and gave a small smile. "We can go to the museum when you get back. No big deal." He still wore a look of guilt, so she leaned over from the passenger's seat and put a hand reassuringly on his knee. "Spencer, it's okay," she told him sincerely.

As much as he wanted to respond, _No it's not_, he truly did appreciate her genuine understanding. His expression softened. "Are you sure…?"

"Go save the day, Spence. I'll be waiting."

He smiled. 'Save the day', she said, as if he was some kind of superhero that went out and saved people who were dangling from high rise buildings, and who defeated evil-doers with laser beams shooting from his eyes. But aside from the theatrics, someone brave and selfless who voluntarily dropped everything to help people who needed it. That was how she saw him. "Thanks, Maeve."

In response, she smiled, leaned over and kissed him. He sighed. She wasn't making leaving much easier. He, regrettably, parted from her slowly.

"I know," Maeve assured him again. "You've got to go."

He leaned in and kissed her one more time.

* * *

"I think this is the one and only time that we got called in and I didn't have any plans," JJ announced. She, Garcia, Morgan, and Reid had just gathered in the bullpen, waiting for the rest of the team to arrive before being briefed about the case.

"I did," Reid huffed, irritated. He got a few curious looks from his team, which he ignored. It wasn't customary for Reid to complain about interrupted plans. The team was his family, and he didn't have many social obligations outside of them. He seemed to be the only one who regularly enjoyed getting called in for a case. This was a first.

Morgan and Garcia exchanged a look, their eyebrows raised mischievously, as if asking innocuously, _What plans_ did _you have, Pretty Boy?_ Their minds were overrun with impure thoughts of Reid's alleged escapades.

Before anyone could question him about it, Rossi walked in, and Hotch emerged from his office. "Blake is on her way. Let's get started in the conference room," their unit chief ordered, before going to collect case files.

A few minutes later, the whole team congregated, listening to a panicked 911 call. A man had called, clearly devastated, claiming that his 'girls were gone'. The team listened intently, perplexed; apparently this man's two daughters had been missing for nearly two days already.

"That call came in an hour ago," Hotch informed. The team went around, theorizing based off of the obscure call. It became even more bizarre when there was an eerily similar 911 call made a year earlier, the same man claiming that his wife was gone. Now it seemed they may have three people to look for. Hotch sensed his team's anticipation. "Wheels up in thirty."

* * *

Maeve lay on the couch, wide awake in the dark. Again. The nightmares were getting better, even more so, she found, when Spencer was there—she found his presence to be quite comforting. But they still hadn't stopped.

The stalking was over, and the solitude was over, but it still hadn't stopped. She still saw Diane and the gun in her face; still heard the shots and the taunting; still felt the zip ties around her wrists and, above all, that feeling of powerless terror.

That was the worst part: that she still felt afraid. Only when she closed her eyes, but she just wanted it to be gone altogether. She felt almost stupid and childish now—the threat gone, the fear still present. Something had to change, if nothing but passing time, or sleeping habits.

But until it did, she had to last through another night of fitful half-sleep.

* * *

In the morning, she woke up, or more accurately, got up, seeing as how one couldn't wake without first having slept. She got dressed and ate breakfast robotically, in part out of exhaustion and part out of distraction. She missed Spencer. She was surrounded by pieces of him—his untidy apartment, his wrinkled clothes, his beloved books—and yet he wasn't there. She usually didn't mind being by herself, but being alone for ten months straight had led to loneliness, and now that she had recently found relief from loneliness, going back to being alone wasn't so appealing.

She read, did laundry, wandered around—she was good at keeping herself occupied. Before too long, her phone rang. She hesitated. For her, half the time a ringing phone was a good thing, but the other half it was horribly frightening. She checked the caller ID, and, thankfully, it was one she recognized quite well. She picked up the phone.

She and her mother exchanged pleasantries and some brief chat, but Maeve couldn't hide her distraction any more than her mom could hide her concern.

"What's going on with you?" she asked accusingly, picking up on Maeve's half-hearted attention.

Maeve couldn't lie—her mom would instantly be able to detect it. There was no point in putting it off; she'd have to know eventually. "Um, I kind of…" she trailed off hesitantly, but then urged herself to just get it out because apprehension would only make her mom's reaction more suspicious. "I have a boyfriend," she blurted out.

"Oh." No doubt her mom was surprised that she had a boyfriend so soon after the whole stalking incident. "Well, go on, tell me about him."

"Um… Well, his name is Spencer. He is so kind. And really intelligent. He's an FBI agent. He was actually there, um, the night that I was…abducted. He…got me out. And he went with me to the hospital."

She heard her mother sigh, and it didn't sound like a particularly good sigh. "Maeve. I don't want to sound unsupportive, but I just don't know if it's the best idea to get into a relationship with him just because he was your knight in shining armor. I know that what he did was very commendable, but that is his job—"

"Mom, it's not like that. And before you say anything, he wasn't there just because it was his job; he was there because of me." Maeve paused and exhaled nervously. "We were already involved before that happened. The FBI wouldn't have intervened at all if it wasn't for him."

There was a moment before her mom responded. "How long had you been seeing him?"

"Well, that's the thing: we didn't see each other. We wrote letters and had phone calls, because I didn't want to put either one of us in danger. We didn't actually see each other until that night."

"I suppose that was smart, but still. Wasn't that a little strange, not even knowing what he looked like?"

Maeve never understood why that was so important to people. "No. It didn't matter what he looked like." Maeve actually thought it was better, getting to know him like that. It was impossible to make judgments based on appearance; they knew—and grew to love—each other as people, and not merely as faces. Her mother was not so convinced.

"Of course not, but are you sure about this? I mean, I would think, especially given recent events, that you would be a little more…I don't know, apprehensive? This is sort of unlike you."

"I know. But that's kind of the point. I wasn't happy before, and now I am, because it's so different." She knew that mentioning she was happy would ease her mom's concern's a bit.

Her mom sighed. "I do want you to be happy. I'm not sure if this is the best way to do that, but you seem to be sure."

"I am," Maeve asserted. There was a pause, and Maeve decided to take the opportunity. "Um, Mom, I've got to go." She could see her mother asking more questions, and then making the connection that she was staying with Spencer—best to avoid suspicion now and put that off for another day. Her mom thankfully didn't insist on prying any further, and they said their goodbyes. When she got off the phone, Maeve sighed in mild exasperation. She knew that the next time she talked to one of her parents, what she would have to answer to would put the Spanish Inquisition to shame.

* * *

Reid sat down across from JJ on the plane. It was late. They were on their way home, and he noticed that JJ had been distant since Sarah Morrison's arrest. She had every right to be: she'd been held at gunpoint by a person whom they had originally thought was a victim. It was never easy when a teammate and friend was at the mercy of a murderous psychopath. But Spencer got the feeling it was more than that. Despite all their training, and all their experience, and everything that they had become desensitized to, there were still cases that shook them.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. Spence, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You don't seem fine. You've been kind of off since we wrapped up the case."

She gave him a look, sighed, and gave in. She started slowly. "It just got me thinking about me and my sister. I mean we fought, like all siblings do, but I can't imagine that I would have ever had that kind of…_disdain_ for her." JJ thought back to when she had brought Sarah home, and the girl's strangely collected and detached demeanor. "Sarah felt nothing, no remorse for killing her own sister." JJ shook her head in disbelief. "When my sister died, all I wanted was to have her back. But Sarah couldn't wait to get rid of hers."

"She's a psychopath; her motives can't be rationalized," Reid reasoned in a comforting voice. He took in JJ's sorrowful and displeased expression. "I know you feel bad that we couldn't save Katie. But you did the very best that you could, and that's all you can hope for. I think your sister would have been proud of you."

JJ gave a small, humbled smile. "Thanks, Spence." It meant a lot to her for him to say that. She got up, gave him a grateful pat on the shoulder, and walked to the back of the plane. Spencer could hear her call Will to tell him she was on her way home. He got out his phone to call Maeve.

After several rings, it went to voicemail. He hoped, given the late hour, that she was getting some sleep. He listened to her recorded greeting before leaving a message. "Hey, it's me. I know it's late, but we finished the case, and I'm on my way back. I'll see you soon. Love you."

Out of Reid's sight, Morgan raised his eyebrows and looked up. He kept his headphones on, turned his music down and pretended he didn't hear anything. _So Pretty Boy finally did it then_, Morgan thought, concealing a proud smile. _He said it back_.

* * *

Spencer turned his key in the door, and walked into his dim apartment. One light was on in the living room, and it was quiet. He put his bag down—he would unpack in the morning. When he didn't see Maeve, he looked over, and saw that she wasn't lying on the couch as he had suspected.

It was strange. Strange because he expected her to be there, and she wasn't, but stranger still that he expected her to be there at all. He hadn't really gotten used to her presence there yet, but he still missed it. It made him feel slightly uneasy. Coming home to an empty apartment had never bothered him before, but now it felt like something was missing.

When he walked into his room, he found her asleep in his bed, and the uneasiness vanished. He quietly sauntered over to the side of the bed where she was facing and crouched down in front of her, gently nudging her shoulder. "Maeve," he murmured, nudging her again. She groaned softly, and slowly opened her eyes. "Hey," he whispered.

She gave him a small smile. "Hey," she muttered back groggily. "You're home." He gave a small smile, and moved his hand tenderly up and down her arm. He felt home.

"I am," he whispered back. She looked up at him tiredly in between long blinks. "Go back to sleep," he told her softly, seeing how hard it was for her to keep her eyes open. She complied, too tired to stubbornly stay awake and give him a proper welcome home, and exhaled restfully as she drifted back to sleep.

He got up and kissed her forehead lightly. As he walked to the other side of the bed, he loosened his tie and undid the buttons down his shirt. After quickly changing into his pajamas, he slid under the covers. He lay beside Maeve and sighed contently.

She rolled over and curled up next to him, already losing consciousness. He felt her leg brush against his and her head fell on his shoulder. His arm lay limply at his side for a second before he gingerly reached over and rested his arm across her waist. He looked at her sleeping face inches away from his—no crease in her forehead, no corner of her lip turned down, no hint of unease. In that dark timeless space, there was a kind of effortless repose that would never end. His gaze lingered on her and then he closed his eyes.

* * *

"The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." – Maya Angelou

* * *

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting this story! As always, feedback is appreciated; I love hearing what you guys think.


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